His Other Doctor
by Naughty Captain Crieff
Summary: At 6 years old, Sherlock Holmes' life is altered forever by the arrival of a strange Doctor. Almost 30 years later and it is John Watson's turn to decide if Sherlock's life was changed for the better. Flashbacks to little Sherlock!
1. The Blog of John H Watson Part 1

**"**_**Beautiful, isn't it?"**_

**"**_**I thought you didn't care about…"**_

**"**_**Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it."**_

**Why does Sherlock Holmes appreciate the stars? I SHALL ANSWER THIS WITH DOCTOR WHO!**

**The story starts with an unpublished post from John's blog, but chapter 2 will be a flashback to Sherlock at age 6. So please read both bits before you decide against this!**

**I should explain that although the Doctor calls Sherlock Stormaggedon in this, Sherlock is NOT supposed to be Alfie from Closing Time. As this is very AU, Alfie and Craig just never happened and the Doctor met little Sherlock in a completely different scenario where Sherlock got the name Stormy. **

**Disclaimer: Sadly I do not own any of these characters, Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC do...**

* * *

><p><span>The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson<span>

He came that morning; the man who you might say ruined my life, one ordinary morning whilst we were eating breakfast, like every morning, at 221b Baker Street.

Well, I say we, I mean I. My roommate had sniffed at my offering of food with his usual disdain before sprawling onto the sofa to watch me eat my toast. That dark, intelligent, unwavering glare, as if judging you for having to indulge in a basic human need, were enough to turn the most formidable of men from their meal. I suppose I was brave in that sense. I had never let Sherlock Holmes intimidate me.

Brave or foolish, I still haven't decided.

Then the bell rang sharply, announcing the arrival of the man who most certainly ruined my life.

"Mrs Hudson! The door!" Sherlock yelled, still sprawled, end to end, across the couch, gangly limbs stretching over the edges as he preened himself.

"I'm not your bloody maid!" She screeched back, but I still heard the door open regardless.

"It's for you, Sherlock!" she called after a few mumbles from downstairs.

"Well, of course it is." Sherlock rolled his eyes, _as if it would be for anyone else, _I know he wanted to add but with a raise of my eyebrows he curled up on his side, sighing.

"Urgh- just- umm- send them up please Mrs Hudson!" I was forced to shout on my flatmates behalf.

Our guest certainly was something new, brown hair coifed back, tweed blazer, suspenders and red bowtie. He looked as if he had stepped right out of the… well, to be honest I couldn't put my finger on where he'd stepped out of. He was a funny kind of man.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands together, "I'm the Doctor. And I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes."

Snapping up, as if someone had lit a fire beneath him, Sherlock was on his feet and in front of the stranger, the _Doctor _(I guess I can't call him "The man who ruined my life" any longer). He placed his hands on either side of the man's face and proceeded to stare at him, scrutinising every pore, for what must have been the few most uncomfortable seconds of my life. However, the Doctor seemed strangely unshaken.

"It really is you. Still… you." Sherlock said, dropping his hands and taking a step back like there was a force repelling him from our guest.

"Yep! It's me! Me being me. Me…." The Doctor trailed off.

"I was beginning to doubt my sanity."

I scoffed at this; Sherlock turned to give me a sharp look.

"Yes, well, it has been a while Stormy!"

_Stormy?_, I thought though Sherlock didn't seem to notice. Or care.

"It's been ten years." Sherlock said with an edge of bitterness to his voice, causing the Doctor to lose his winning smile.

"You chose to leave. Remember?" his voice was soft but just beneath the surface I heard a soft despondency. Not just for Sherlock, but for every person who had ever left him. (I eventually learnt that there was a reason why everyone left the Doctor. I learnt it too late.)

"I guess I always thought you'd come back." Sherlock muttered and, as if he realised he'd shown too much vulnerability, added in a bored tone "It is so _you_ after all. Inconveniencing everyone around you."

I didn't like seeing Sherlock like this, so put out. He intimidated people, made them feel small, not the other way round. And I suppose it could have been some jealousy on my own part, jealousy that Sherlock had in fact connected with another who wasn't me (and someone just as eccentric as him), but I didn't want this conversation to continue.

I cleared my throat in the most obvious manner possible and the Doctor turned his gaze to me, "Oh, hello again. We haven't met before, I think. I'm the Doctor."

"You already said that." Sherlock muttered.

Despite my friend's flippant behaviour, even worse than usual, I stood up and shook the Doctors hand, "John Watson."

"_Doctor_ John Watson." Sherlock interjected with a smug look.

"Oh, a doctor, very good." The Doctor proceeded to perch himself on the sofa.

"Yes, you too I hear. What do you specialise in?" I asked politely.

"He doesn't" Sherlock answered on behalf of the Doctor, "It's his name. Kind of."

"A strange sort of name?" I hummed.

"A strange sort of man." The Doctor waved me off and began on what he was really there for, "I was hoping you could help me Sherlock."

"Trouble I'm assuming." Sherlock began; his voice had a sharp edge to it, "Hmmm? Land in London and have half of the alien threats in the universe follow you to my door step? Well you can forget about it."

"Now now. Don't be like that. I know that you love this sort of challenge Stormy." There was that name again, _Stormy._

Sherlock seemed to think for a moment, seemingly weighing his options and eventually he came to the conclusion that the danger this man offered outweighed his distaste of the man himself and answered, "Fine."

"Brilliant!" the Doctor clapped, stood up, turned on the spot all before saying, "The TARDIS is parked down the street, whenever you're ready meet me there. So be ready in a couple of minutes."

Grinning, the Doctor waved to me, then turning to Sherlock, "Goodbye Stormy! See you soon"

"Will you _stop _calling me that." Sherlock called after the Doctor, but the front door was already slamming shut.

"Why does he call you that?" I questioned after a long moment of silence.

I didn't often ask Sherlock about those from his past, but I had lived with him for a few years by then and while I had learnt his every intriguing habit and mannerism, all of his pet peeves, talents and interests, it occurred to me that I knew very little about anything but his present. He had a brother, who he disliked. But why? And what about his parents? Who had seen Sherlock Holmes to the point in his life where he had suspected the murder of Carl Powers as a child? I could not even begin to imagine a teenage Sherlock. With the arrival of this excitable, strange Doctor, I was suddenly intrigued. Who was the Doctor to a pre- Watson Holmes?

Sherlock hesitated but seemed to think better on withholding information on his mysterious Doctor, "He says that's what I used to want to be called when we met… a long time ago."

* * *

><p><strong>The next chapter is a flashback to little Sherlock! And it will alternate like that basically, between Sherlock and John.<strong>


	2. Sherlock Holmes is 6 years old

**So, this is the flashback (which is actually written in the present tense but that's the complications of time travel eh?). The next one (Chapter 4) will be Sherlock at 9 years old. Just so you get an idea of how this is working.**

**Anyway, enjoy iccle Sherlock.**

* * *

><p><strong>Sherlock Holmes is 6 years old. <strong>And he is playing in his garden.

Behind an old Victorian house, between the rows of his father's young medicinal plants, a little boy digs through the earth on his hands and knees . His fingers are as black as the endless curls that fall around his face and atop his round cheeks sits the red tint of exhaustion. And although he has no doubt that his mother shall scold him for the earth beneath his nails later, he still grins from ear to ear.

"Yes!" Sherlock yells grabbing a fistful of the soil in his small hands, a stranger watching might have thought he'd found a worm or something little boys like to find in the mud. But Sherlock would never dream of concerning himself with the matters of a child, because he's trying to prove his brother wrong.

"I knew it! Mycroft is wrong." He laughs, "Look at the colour, the-the, uh-" he strains to remember the word "pH BALANCE! The pH balance is wrong. I said it was the soil. HAHA!"

Springing up with the abandon only a child could have, Sherlock readies himself for the run back to the house with a handful of dirt and a pocketful of dreams. Dreams of proving his brother wrong. Even if it is just about why the plants weren't growing properly.

However, his elation is put on hold by a sound he can only describe as broken machinery, whirring and clunking from behind the shed at the end of the garden. Dropping the soil, Sherlock rolls forward onto his toes, edging around the shed with all the stealth of a seal on land.

He's sure he'll learn subtlety one day, but he doesn't need it at six years old.

When he sees the box, the big blue box that reads "Police Public Call Box", he doesn't run or scream or gasp or cringe away. Because although the probability of a big blue box appearing in the shade of his garden is very low, Sherlock is not quite so easily shaken.

Carefully, he creeps forwards and places a hand on the door of the police box. Impossibly, the wood hums beneath his palm as if breathing and he allows himself to gaze up at the thing in awe. A box with a heartbeat. Sherlock is so lost in the idea that he almost misses the opposite door swing open.

It's not hard to miss the man that springs from the open door, however.

Within seconds, Sherlock has observed and taken in every detail of the stranger. On a first glance he has brown hair, swept back in a wave, a tweed jacket, a blue bowtie and red suspenders. But most importantly to Sherlock, through his young eyes, the man is… lopsided. Not lopsided with a limp, Sherlock thinks that it would be easier to understand that, but emanating a feeling that he just isn't right side up. He's upside-down, un-straight, lopsided.

"HAPPY BRITHDAY STORMY!" the stranger barks down at him with a grin.

"It's not my Birthday. And my name is Sherlock."

"Oh, well, sometimes the date can come out a tad… wrong. But it is _you_Stormy, which is fab." He rubs his hands together with a childish glee, "The old girl's been making it very difficult to find you."

"My name is Sherlock Holmes." He repeats with a little more force. If there was one thing Sherlock couldn't stand it was idiots, and what he has come to realise is that all adults are idiots. But the stranger isn't talking to him like he's a child, like other adults do, so Sherlock is willing to listen to his absurdity for just a bit longer.

"Well it is _now_. You used to prefer to go by Stormageddon: dark lord of all" he sweeps his hands through the air, underlining the phrase, "when you were a baby. You see, I accidentally ended up babysitting you a few years back. I say babysitting… accidentally kidnapping is possibly more accurate. But the details aren't really important. All that matters is that you're here! And well, I hope? This is just a routine check…"

Sherlock, unable to stop himself, interrupts with a bored "You're still talking."

"Yeeees, that I was." The man looks down at Sherlock a little sceptically, head tilted and silently appraising, but his mouth slowly stretches back into a grin as if he's seen something in the little boy that he hasn't seen in anyone in a long time.

"I'm the Doctor, Sherlock. And it is lovely to meet you. Again." He holds out his hand for Sherlock to shake, but the boy seems to just sniff at him indignantly, "Right, yes," he drops his hand, "How would you like to come for a ride?"

"In what? You came out of a blue box." Sherlock scowls, "And my mother said I shouldn't go off with strangers."

Sherlock neglects to mention the several other times curiosity has caused him to follow suspicious looking men, and once even climb into a dark van.

"It's not a box, it's a ship. A time travelling, intergalactic ship." The Doctor runs his hands down the lapels of his blazer, as if horrifically offended. He moves a lot, like a child, Sherlock thinks before the Doctor continues, "And I told you, I'm the Doctor. So I'm not a stranger, am I?"

"I suppose not." Sherlock couldn't really argue the fact. His mother hadn't specifically said what constitutes a stranger.

"So my ship! Would you like to see her? Oh she is brilliant, my TARDIS, even better for a kid… adults like to tell me it's impossible and spoil all the…" The Doctor's words fade away as he stalks off, arms swinging in exuberance. Sherlock follows him to the door, catching the end of his rant, "… always moaning. And they just don't _see_. Well, actually, no, that's not fair. They're just never really looking. But you, Sherlock Holmes, I bet you see everything?"

The Doctor spins on his heels, and locks eyes with the young Sherlock, and it's as if he's looking behind his eyes. Past them and to his core. Like he already knows what this little boy will become.

"Are we going in?" Sherlock asks so the Doctor will stop staring. Sherlock isn't bothered that much by people staring at him, he gets it all too often, from his parents and teachers and the odd health care professional (they all seem vaguely unsatisfied with him a lot of the time). But when the Doctor stares it makes Sherlock squirm.

"Come on then." The Doctor pushes the door to his TARDIS, peering from under the curl of his hair slyly as Sherlock steps in.

Immediately, he understands the look. It was one of anticipation, elation… affection for his illogical machine. For once in his short life, Sherlock has no words. No description or deduction for what he is seeing. It is astonishing. And for the first and last time in his life Sherlock allows himself to state the obvious.

"It's bigger on the inside." He whispers and he knows the Doctor hears him, but he just walks to the control panel of his TARDIS.

"So, Sherlock Holmes" the strange Doctor smiles, "Where do you want to go?"

* * *

><p>Review? Maybe?<p>

Next blog bit and flashback thing next week.

- Ella


	3. The Blog of John H Watson Part 2

**So! Chapter 3. I hope you like it… next chapter is Sherlock at 9 years old, which I think is quite damn awesome.**

* * *

><p><span>The Personal Blog of Dr John H. Watson<span>

"Right, well I'm not going to step into a bloody four by four box to amuse you, Sherlock." I waved my hands frantically at the thing Sherlock called 'the TARDIS'.

"Alright then, you wait here." Sherlock said, throwing his scarf over his shoulder, the epitome of a diva, slipping into the blue police box as he did.

"Fine, you win." I mumbled to myself, placing a hand on the door, "You always win."

Wearily I pushed the door open, not expecting much, certainly not expecting what I got. With wide, disbelieving eyes, I stepped back out of the box, and walked around it once. Twice. Three times before a hand fell on my shoulder.

"Not an illusion, John." Sherlock said, guiding me back into the TARDIS.

It seemed, when inside, I was unable to control the hinges of my jaw at the sight. Arches and railings and stairs and a console. Impossible, completely impossible things all glowing with a soft green light and underlined by a strange hum. It was like a mad man's playground, with a console adorned with flashing lights and spinning things, a monitor and a typewriter and a gramophone. Brilliantly insane. I guessed it was much like the man that fiddled with the dials on the monitor.

Gazing around, awe struck, I eventually turned to Sherlock who lent lazily against a railing, dark eyes watching me intently.

"Care to explain!" I folded my arms across my chest.

Glancing over to the Doctor, Sherlock received a small nod, apparently allowing him to explain on the Doctor's behalf.

"It's another dimension." Sherlock shrugged, and from the corner of my eye I saw the Doctor look around from the monitor, a small smile gracing his lips at Sherlock's knowledge.

"Oh, well that clears everything up."

"Fine, fine. It's a sort of space ship, time machine. TARDIS; Time and Relative Dimension in Space. And it belongs to the Doctor who is actually a 900 year old alien from the planet Gallifrey. Two hearts. Changes faces. Yada yada, got it yet?" Sherlock finishes in a bored drone, looking at me as if I was the most idiotic person he'd met. Almost as bad as the looks he'd give Anderson.

"That's- that's absurd!" I shout but Sherlock had already turned away, moving towards the console.

I couldn't handle it. It was impossible, insane, irrational. Finding the nearest seat, I stumbled onto it, placing head in hands.

"I need a cup of tea." I groaned, "This is- this is really too much."

"Oh, do stop overreacting John." Sherlock sighed.

"Overreacting! We are in a police box, which is bigger on the inside, with a time travelling, alien mad man."

"Your powers of reasoning are quite something John."

I threw my hands up, giving up, "Of course Sherlock Holmes would have a time travelling alien friend."

"He's not my friend." Sherlock snapped, casting his eyes down to the machine, pressing some flashing button or other.

From behind the monitor, I see the Doctor's shoulders stiffen, see his hands momentarily stall over the dials he'd been turning and buttons he'd been pressing. A tense silence fell heavily over the room, like fog, slowing everyone's movement. After fiddling with the monitor for a while longer, the Doctor shrugged off his tension and called Sherlock over.

"Unusual energy readings coming from the south of London, you see?" the Doctor pointed to the screen, Sherlock leaning over his shoulder, hands clasped behind back.

"No, you know I don't, this isn't English." Sherlock sighed.

"Right, sorry. Anyway, there are. Very high, no human industry needs that."

"So alien then?"

"Of course."

I was stunned to silence at the casual conversation passing between the two on alien energy.

"OK then, let's go."

"Are you sure you want to bring John?" the Doctor asked, talking as though I wasn't there (which I was more than used to with Sherlock), and though his tone of voice suggested concern, I was incensed by the idea that I cannot take care of myself.

"John? Of course, he's kind of like my biographer. Can't do without him." From the console Sherlock winked at me, and I could not help but smile back.

The man astounded me, he really did.

"Alright, OK, as you say. On we go." The Doctor said, pushing the monitor away from him and springing into action.

It seemed Sherlock had some kind of grasp on the workings of the Doctor's time machine, the two of them moved in an eerie synchronisation, twisting dials, pulling leavers and pushing buttons (with the Doctor occasionally ducking under Sherlock's arm to reverse something he had just done). After a while, the TARDIS came to a grinding halt. I could feel my knuckles turning white at my sides from holding onto the chair so tight, unnerved about the dangerous whirring and clunking the machine gave off. Guns, poison, theft and murder? Easy. Unstable, unknown technology? It made me queasy at best.

"Relax, John, there's much worse to come." Sherlock aimed a smile at me.

"Really?"

"Oh yes." The Doctor interjected, pulling the doors open with a somewhat manic grin.

Together we stepped outside to a bank on the Thames, gravel crunching underfoot, horrendous nose-burning aromas in the air.

"Wonderful place, London." The Doctor said, breathing deeply, and he wasn't being sarcastic.

I scoffed, Sherlock ignored him.

He was already deducing, scanning the area, taking in everything there was to see. By then, he already knew exactly where we were and what industries were nearby and where the closest café was. He probably knew what the pH of the soil was.

Sometimes I wondered if it was possible to be too brilliant, but looking at him then, at his best, I decided that Sherlock Holmes was perfect. (Perfect because he was so flawed)

"Right, OK, right," I began, my voice a mixture of defeat and excitement, "What do we do now?"

"Why don't we head towards the energy readings?" Sherlock said, glancing to the Doctor with a look I had never seen him wear before. He was looking for the Doctor's approval. A child's expression reflected on the face of one of the greatest minds of the twenty first century.

I couldn't help but wonder the kind of influence the Doctor held over Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Sherlock Holmes is 9 years old

**Sherlock Holmes is 9 years old. **And he is trying to sleep.

A spinning nightlight throws blue stars across the walls of the bedroom, a stark contrast to the boxes of small dead mammals, poisonous plants, jars of earth, the open encyclopaedia Britannica and other reference books strewn across the floor. One might expect the room to belong to a deranged scientist and not a nine year old boy, who now lay on his back, wide eyed and watching the stars dance across his roof. Sherlock Holmes has never slept well. They say it's a phase, but he isn't so sure.

Sleep wasn't going to grace Sherlock tonight though, not after his room begins to be filled with a familiar song. A whirring, clunking, vworping, quiet spectacular sound. The TARDIS materialises in the corner of his bedroom, scattering papers across the floor with its self-contained wind.

Sherlock swings his legs over the edge of the bed, leaning forward in giddy anticipation as the TARDIS door swings open, and its owner steps out.

"ShhhShhhShhh! Don't worry, it's only me!"

The Doctor holds his hands out in a kind of surrender, although there is really no need. The big blue box he has just stepped out of is bit of a giveaway. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

Carefully, between thumb and forefinger, the Doctor lifts some kind of dead creature from a velvet arm chair in the corner of the room, crinkling his nose as he does so, then perches on its edge. From where he sits, the Doctor is illuminated then cast in shadow with every rotation of the nightlight, his angles and corners exaggerated under the blue glow. He looks the same as the last time they met. And the time before that. Sporadically, the Doctor has visited Sherlock since that first time he can remember when he was six and there was not a single change on him in those three years. He was the same, down to the last thread on his tweed jacket.

The Doctor stays still as the rest of time passes him by, Sherlock thinks.

"Afraid of the dark, Stormy?" the Doctor nods towards the rotating light.

"Sherlock. And no. I'm not."

"There's no need to be embarrassed. I hate the dark. It's is a scary thing. Lots of horrible things in the dark." The Doctor's gaze shifts from the stars on the roof to Sherlock, "Not to worry though. You're perfectly safe." Sherlock scoffs and the Doctor decides that there is no point lying to this particular little boy, "Or not. Who knows? You can never know. Mysterious, that's why I love it."

"You already said that you…" Sherlock trails off, deciding it's pointless. If there was anyone who could love and hate something at the same time, it would be the Doctor. He is a living, breathing paradox.

"Anyway, I'm not embarrassed." Sherlock pushes because he really isn't afraid of the dark. Whenever his eyes did close, Sherlock would dream of things normal little boys did not, of lies and deceit and secrecy. That scared him. So he told his mother. "My mother bought it for me."

"Ah mums. Good old mums, eh?" The Doctor seems on edge, distracted, brow creased and eyes shifting. He's trying to hide something with chatter. Is he upset? Sherlock wonders where he has just been.

"Is she good, your mum?" The Doctor continues, his voice a little softer now, sadder. But as if he's said something wrong he perks up again, "What am I saying! All mums are good."

Tilting his head to the side, Sherlock takes a short moment to squint at the Doctor, he is impossible to figure out, but then says, "I suppose she is. I haven't really thought about it."

If Sherlock did take the time to think about his mother, he would agree that she was indeed a 'good' mum. A brilliant one in fact. Not thinking her son was insane was enough to make her a good mother. Encouraging and helping him to be fantastic was what made her brilliant.

"She didn't buy me the nightlight so I wouldn't be scared, she bought it me so that when I woke up, I wouldn't be in the dark." Sherlock tells the Doctor, his mouth tugging up at the corners.

He doesn't seem to know how to reply to the child's affection, which was often the case with anything Sherlock said. The Doctor has spent most of his life trying to understand humans, and one little boy walks in and destroys centuries of work with his complexity. The Doctor just stands and goes to sit on the edge of the bed with Sherlock, saying what has been on his mind since he arrived.

"I just saw you, you know." The Doctor says quietly.

"Yes?" Sherlock thinks about the implications of being a time traveller, and asks what seems to be the smartest question, "How old was I?"

"Ah, well done." The Doctor flashes a smile, but it's gone again too soon, "About thirteen."

Sherlock can guess that anyone else would ask about their future, but he thinks better of it, "Well, I'm glad that I live that long."

The Doctor doesn't know how to reply, again. So he moves on, like he always does.

"They're rather more impressive than that you know." He looks up to the stars, spinning.

"No, I wouldn't. You've only ever taken me to the past. Can you take me somewhere alien yet?"

"How old are you now?"

"Nine."

"I guess you're old enough then. No telling though."

Sherlock has never told a soul about his stranger, they'd be sure to put him – or the doctor - away. Turning up in little boys bedrooms at night and hustling them into a police box is something Sherlock imagines normal people would frown upon. If they really knew what the Doctor was, alien, time lord, wonderful, maybe they wouldn't be so quick to judge. But for now he plans on keeping quiet.

Eventually, Sherlock steps into the TARDIS with the Doctor and its soft hum greats him like a friend. The warm green glow and whirring of the machinery envelopes Sherlock, it makes him feel unusually safe.

"Do you remember what this one does?" the Doctor asks, pointing to a random spinny thing below what appears to be a gramophone.

"No." Sherlock answers bluntly, "I've had better things to use that storage space for since the last time we met."

"You're never going to learn how to fly her with that sort of attitude." The Doctor feigns outrage as he spins around the console, pulling and twisting, tapping and hitting. Sherlock has seen the Doctor do this dance a few times now, and he has never seen him looking so at ease. The alien man with his alien machine.

"Why would I want to know how to fly it, when you can?" Sherlock asks, genuinely curious.

"Just in case I-" The Doctor swallows hard and Sherlock nearly rolls his eyes again.

Bored of theatrics, he decides to finish for him "Just in case you die, and can't take me home?"

"Exactly." The Doctor's shoulders ease up, his brow smoothens. Straightening his bow tie, he looks at his little companion, the one that is honest and brave and clever without realising it or meaning to be. Well, actually, he knows he's clever. And one day everyone else will know too.

He continues "So, Sherlock, how about we see those stars?"

* * *

><p><strong>If you liked this, please please please review. Even if it's just a word!<strong>

**- Ella**


	5. The Blog of John H Watson Part 3

**A/N: Sorry that this took me so long to put up. I have no excuses, it's been done for ages. Anyway, here you go!**

* * *

><p><span>The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson<span>

We were a few paces behind the mad Doctor, who bounded ahead, something he called a "sonic screwdriver" an extension of his outstretched arm, scanning the area with an unusual buzzing. Slowly, by the green light of the screwdriver, the three of us were making our way through a seemingly abandoned warehouse on the banks of the Thames, weaving in and out of piled up storage crates.

Sherlock pulled his phone out and I watched the concentrated look on his face as the light from the screen lit up every brilliant angle. Too fast for me to even guess what he had been doing, Sherlock slipped the phone back into his coat pocket, letting a look of disinterest creep onto his features.

"Can you smell that John?" Sherlock asked me quietly as we walked along, each of us already forming silent ideas about today's situation.

I sniffed the air and though it was faint, I could definitely smell something.

"It smells like… bacon." I replied, puzzled, though Sherlock nodded in agreement.

"Do you remember the time I was doing an experiment?"

I stared at him, "You're going to have to be a _bit_ more specific."

Sherlock sighed, as if I should know, but elaborated, "When I was trying to see if one could melt magnesium under specific conditions."

"And you dropped it on your arm?" I said as Sherlock rubbed his forearm subconsciously. The burn had long since faded away, but I could still remember the raw skin, the smell of… "Flesh? That's the smell? Burning flesh?"

I swallowed hard and Sherlock nodded grimly.

"Are you going to tell the Doctor?" I asked.

"He knows. Don't you Doctor?" Sherlock said, not raising his voice, still looking at me. The Doctor stopped walking, which seemed to be enough of an answer for Sherlock who rolled his eyes, "Did you really think I wouldn't notice you listening in? I am, well, me."

"Good point." The Doctor spun around and clapped his hands, "So, what else do you have for me."

"I'm not sure yet. There are fresh boot prints all over the warehouse, but they're all the same boots. It doesn't make sense." Sherlock mused, scowling.

"What doesn't?" I asked.

"It suggests it would only be one person. Or alien."

"No, I mean, what doesn't make sense? One person doing what?"

"Stealing people from the streets of London. And doing whatever it is that's producing that smell." Sherlock turned to me, and behind the blank expression I could see his eyes were alight with excitement. He relished in mystery. Eventually, he continued, "I checked through the news for this area of London on my phone before. People are going missing. Mainly homeless people and prostitutes. People out all night and alone on the streets but a lot of them and in a short space of time. I wonder why Lestrade hasn't already called me, this is clearly out of his depth."

"One alien stealing people from London." The Doctor hummed.

"Well, one, or a uniformed group." Sherlock interjected.

I stalled, "What, like an army?"

"You better believe it Johnny boy." Sherlock shook his head at the Doctor at his distaste for the nickname. "Not Johnny boy? Really? I liked that one. Oh well. Anyway, aliens have armies too. Some planets out there consist of just soldiers. Vast and swarming, just itching to conquer and destroy. I've seen it. It's brilliantly terrifying."

"The armies of the stars." I mused, and Sherlock glanced at me from the corner of his eye, seeing upon my features what I had just come to realise.

Because I saw then what I had been trying not to notice. This mad, impossible Doctor offered Sherlock endless mysteries to solve. Entire armies of aliens to bring to their knees with his undeniable logic. The Doctor handed Sherlock Holmes the entire universe in which to play. And for some reason, still unknown to me, he had given it all up. There was something wrong with this _time lord. _

"… none of them are as destructive as you though. You _humans,_ all destroying each other. At least everyone else is in it to annihilate other species. Not that I condone that kind of behaviour. But at least they aren't killing themselves." I caught the end of the Doctor's rant, which died on a bitter, sad note.

For a moment I watched the Doctor with his eyes cast to the floor and mouth downturned. I could see every line of history on that ancient face when he allowed his emotions to surface like that.

Wanting attention, Sherlock cleared his throat and the Doctor and I turned to him.

"Can we stop avoiding the inevitable now." I glanced at him quizzically and he sighed, "Let's open the crates."

"Ah yes! Of course, silly me." The Doctor's face lit up with anticipation. From one extreme to another.

He spun on his heels and came to a stop, both hands pointing towards the nearest crate.

Cautiously, we approached it, silence lingering between the three of us so all that could be heard was the intake of breath. Everything suddenly seemed a lot darker, with only the Doctor's green glow eerily illuminating us. The shadows flickered under the sonic screwdriver's light, as if shaking with laughter at us. Between Sherlock Holmes and the Doctor, the tension and drama doing even the simplest task seemed to intensify tenfold.

I let my hand linger over my pocket, only to realise that my gun – which I now carried whenever I left the house with Sherlock for fear of some misadventure- was not there. I patted myself down in futility, it was gone.

Hearing my squeak of 'What the…' the Doctor spun on his heels and after a glance said, "Mmm yes, sorry, I meant to tell you. I managed to get that nasty thing off you earlier. Its back in the TARDIS."

"Oh, _I_ meant to tell you, John, a 1000 year old alien who defends the earth but hates any sort of weapon or violence." Sherlock cast a sardonic look over the Doctor but he just shrugged and turned back to the crate, sonic held out like his own gun.

The Doctor curled the fingers of his free hand around the handle of the storage crate and slowly, agonisingly slowly, pulled the door open. Together the three of us tilted our heads around the door, eyes cast to the sliver of darkness.

Empty.

We try another. Empty. And more. Empty. Empty. Empty. All of them. Nothing.

"Well _something's_ going on here!" I sighed, exasperated, " What about secret passages! Teleports. All that nonsense. Come on, you're an alien aren't you."

"That I am. But a detective, not so much. The TARDIS says the energy readings are coming from here, I mean, it might be below, but why do you think I brought you?" The Doctor waved a finger in Sherlock's face.

"We should leave." Sherlock said straight faced, ignoring the Doctor.

I watched as his eyes darted into the darkness around us then back to the Doctor and I. I recognised the look of hidden alarm instantly. We weren't alone.

"Sherlock?" the Doctor took a step towards him, his voice low and cautious.

Sherlock simply nodded to a corner of the room where I was just quick enough to see a shimmering, blue light dissipate. And from that same corner began a heavy, mechanical sound. Stomp stomp stomp. It sounded hydraulic, almost.

"Looks like you were right, John," Sherlock said monotonously, tucking his hands into the pockets of his coat, "A teleportation device."

My friend's eyes glazed over in resignation as the sound got louder. Closer.

"Well then!" I panicked, "Why aren't we running!"

Together, the Doctor and Sherlock turned their heads back down the path we had taken. At the end of it, just a small square in the distance, was the light from the open door.

And, in a second, the light was snuffed.

"Too late." The Doctor sang.

The sound was getting closer still and with every mechanical stomp a memory seemed to ring louder in my ears.

Opening his sonic screwdriver and scanning the air around him, the Doctor sighed at the results he found and mumbled an _"I thought so." _under his breath.

I tensed where I stood, between the detective and the alien, preparing for my end though bugged by a memory. Something I knew about this sound specifically.

_A uniformed group. Armies of the stars. Stomp stomp stomp._

And it clicked.

The memory was of my own time in the army. The momentous marching; left right left. Stomp stomp stomp.

Something about the way these aliens were marching towards us told me this wasn't going to be a peaceful encounter.

They were almost there, about to round the corner of the row of crates we stood down, but I still turned to the Doctor and with desperation asked, "What are they?"

Too late.

"**DELETE. DELETE."**

"Cybermen."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So it's the Cybermen! More on that after the flashback, which will be uploaded sometime tonight, I promise.**

**Also, would really love to hear what you think! Oh please please review. **


	6. Sherlock Holmes is 13 years old  Part 1

**Sherlock Holmes is 13 years old. **_And he is saying goodbye._

It's raining and it is positively miserable,_ appropriate weather_, he thinks. His curls are soaked, and line his face like black curtains closing around him, darkening the world he sees even more.

It's funny, because he hasn't cried once. The man at the hospital (Sherlock can't call him 'the doctor' as the title belongs to another) says that it's normal for a boy of his age, and that the tears will come later, when it hits him. Sherlock knows they won't.

He wishes they would though.

He wants the tears fall so much that when the insane man has stopped calling to his invisible God and the earth has swallowed its prey and everyone files inside for "It's a damn shame." and assorted savouries, he stays where he is. He stays in the rain and sits on the grass and rubs his thumb along the words on the stone.

"A Loving Mother." It reads. He silently agrees.

"_Is she good, your mum?"_ Someone had asked him once. And he hadn't known how to answer then. But he does now, when it's too late to tell her or for it to matter. She was brilliant.

Soon, too soon, he hears the sound, the one he's learnt to think of as the song of time, and pulls himself up a few moments before he feels a hand fall on his shoulder.

"I'm not very good with condolences." Is the first thing his stranger says, and Sherlock turns to him.

He looks the same as he always has. Not a day older.

"You don't need to give me condolences. You can change this. You have a time machine don't you?"

The Doctor smiles, small and sad, at this but a shadow falls across his eyes. Sherlock thinks he's seen this look before, when the Doctor thinks no one is looking (but Sherlock is always looking, at everything), the look that makes him look so desperately alone and sad and tired. And old, most of all. Ancient. Sherlock supposes he should feel sorry for the man, but he thinks he's found a kindred spirit in him, because who is there to understand Sherlock Holmes? Not that the Doctor understands him, but at least they can be misunderstood together.

"You know I can't do that. I've told you about all of this." The Doctor sighs, and he almost sounds annoyed (Sherlock hears this is his own voice often enough to spot even the subtlest hint). Sherlock is sure that for anyone else there would be only the deepest sympathy, but he knew he wasn't just anyone. And that the Doctor knew he wasn't just anyone.

"I know. Fixed point in time. Or the Web of Time. Or a paradox. Or something." Sherlock spits his last word venomously, but the anger dies on his lips until there is just a hollow misery. He didn't even know why he asked. The Doctor had already known this whole time, after all.

The Doctor pats him awkwardly one last time then gestures to the edge of the cemetery with a "So…?". From behind a memorial, a great statue of an angel with its wings spread to the heavens and eyes cast downwards, peeks a midnight blue corner of the TARDIS.

Sherlock doesn't answer but just begins walking to the TARDIS. He doesn't think he can stand going into the church and hearing whispers of "she was a wonderful woman" anyway.

"Sherlock! Where are you going?"

Sherlock's face falls at the voice, knowing before he turns who its owner is.

Turning to the Doctor he mutters, "That's Mycroft, my brother."

Upon first glance the man immediately registers as a close relative to Sherlock but at second or third one may begin to doubt themselves on this fact. He can only be 20 but his stature is domineering, tall and stout, not built for a life of chasing as his younger brother so clearly is. On the surface, at a glance, Mycroft's features resemble Sherlock's but unlike Sherlock he wears his haughty kind of intelligence on ever line of his face, like a mask. He is clever, that much is sure, but his intelligence does not shine behind his eyes as it does with his brother. Those eyes are deep set and watch the pair in such a way now that the Doctor can almost ignore the powerful stature of the man and concentrate only on the subtle play of his features. He is highly controlled and observant. And very wary.

"Mycroft, this is…"

"That police box, is it yours?" Mycroft cuts his brother off and points to the TARDIS.

"It is." The Doctor says, patting the side of his TARDIS lovingly, with a sentimental look.

"A lot of people are looking for you, Doctor." Mycroft says, and the Doctor stiffens upon hearing the name he never gave.

Sherlock realised a long time ago, after the Doctor told him that humans fascinated him, that a man that old and that wonderful had to have encountered many humans in his time. Had to have influenced the history of the Earth in unknown ways. But Sherlock also knows that the Doctor always manages to find danger, manages to bring danger to any land he walks on. Planet Earth has taken note of the Doctor, and although it is news to Sherlock that his brother knows of the Doctor, it is no surprise that people do know of him. So he puts two and two together, and realises how Mycroft must know.

"Mycroft works for the government. An apprenticeship somewhere high up that he can't tell anyone about." Sherlock tells the Doctor.

"I think the Doctor knows where I work though. Hmm? A little place called Torchwood."

"What year is it Sherlock?" the Doctor asks but his eyes are still locked onto Mycroft's.

"1989."

The Doctor, with a sly smile playing on his lips, addresses Mycroft "I'd get out of Torchwood while I still could if I were you. You have 16 years or so before it all starts going downhill."

Mycroft raises his eyebrows and seems to seriously consider the Doctor's words. He is, after all, aware of the Earth's future, if the files are correct. Saying that, there are a lot of things the Torchwood files say about this marvellous alien, not all of them good.

Mycroft is suddenly very concerned for his little brother, "Sherlock, come on. We have to get back to the church."

"I'm going with the Doctor, Mycroft."

"No. You're not. I don't know how you know this man, but you can't go with him." He's dangerous, Mycroft adds to himself. He can't let Sherlock know how much he worries about him, the boy would only use it against him.

Sherlock wants to pout and tell his brother to stop acting like he controls him, to throw a stinging retort about Mycroft's yoyo diet, as he usually would. But he doesn't want the Doctor to see the petty sibling rivalry. He doesn't think he would ever be comfortable with anyone seeing that.

So instead he just turns from his brother, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his soaked black suit, and walks into the TARDIS.

"I'm coming with you." Mycroft says matter-of-factly to the Doctor, who nods slightly, though a shadow has fallen across his eyes. This Doctor is hard to read, Mycroft can't tell if the darkness behind his eyes is mistrust or concern or sorrow or something much deeper. Much more alien.

"The one time I forget my umbrella." Mycroft mumbles, sweeping damp red hair back from his eyes and pushing past the Doctor to board his blue box without hesitation.

Mycroft lets his eyes sweep the parameter of the TARDIS, taking in every spiny, flashy, impossible thing, before sniffing disinterestedly at the site and leaning on one of the railings.

"Mycroft…" Sherlock starts but is swiftly cut off.

"Oh I was hardly going to let you go gallivanting off on the day of our mother's funeral by yourself, was I?" Mycroft turned to the Doctor who was shrugging his jacket off, "Can you get us back before it ends?"

"I can get you back five minutes ago." The Doctor replies coyly, but the mischief is lost on Mycroft who is pulling a black note book from his pocket.

"Dimensionally transcendental." He says smugly, writing the words down, "We figured as much. Just couldn't be sure. This is the furthest anyone from Torchwood has managed to get into your little machine. I must say, I thought you'd put up more of a fight. More defence systems, you know?"

"No weapons systems on the TARDIS." The Doctor hums and Mycroft's arrogance goes over his head as he simultaneously rolls up his damp shirt sleeves and hops around the console, pressing and hitting and pulling things.

If Mycroft is unnerved by the sounds emitting from the TARDIS, the movement beneath his feet, he doesn't let on. Sherlock watches him carefully from his seat, knees tucked up under his chin. There seems to be some kind of petty power play between the Doctor and his brother; based on who can hold their poker face the longest. Sherlock smiles into his arms, wondering who will win. They are both clever, unreasonably so, but Mycroft is a Holmes. And the Holmes boys are nothing if not stubborn.

"So, Doctor." Mycroft thumbs the edge of his note book eagerly, ready to absorb information on the Doctor, "Torchwood has observed your name in recorded history a few times, back through the years."

"Oh yes?" the Doctor continues to fiddle with the TARDIS obliviously.

"Yes. Always a strange man, and his blue box, who rids the Earth of some beast. Written off by most as myth and fairytale , but we know better than that. The Doctor, sauntering in with his alien habits and a peculiar fashion sense." Sherlock makes a noise of agreement and the Doctor looks affronted, hand adjusting his bow tie, "But there are minor differences. Sometimes the Doctor comes up as an old man, young, short, tall, hair black and cropped or brown and curly, never ginger we found, sometimes wearing a multi coloured scarf, a decorative vegetable, an array of question marks, a bow tie," Mycroft gestures to the Doctor," several times in fact, a pocket watch and ruffles – that was my favourite, I have to say-, a fez…."

The Doctor cuts his list short and, with his voice deep and full of warning, says slowly, "What, exactly, is your point?"

"Well, Doctor," Mycroft smiles slightly, glad to have found a crack in the Doctor's mask, "Your name on the face of half a dozen or more different men. Some at Torchwood have suggested a title, just passed from man to man. But I don't think so. I think you're the same man with a different face. And I just wanted to know; how many faces have you had now? And how exactly do you do it?"

"Eleven, to date." The Doctor drops his hands from the console and Sherlock supposes they have arrived, that or the Doctor is ready to just push Mycroft from the TARDIS mid-flight, "And you wouldn't understand if I told you the science behind it. It's a Time Lord thing. A cheat."

"Time Lord." Mycroft nods, as if the Doctor has confirmed something, and Sherlock sees him note it down in his book under where Sherlock thinks he has scrawled 'Eleven'.

"No notes." The Doctor says, snatching the note book from Mycroft's hand and waving it in his face, "I know which of me your Torchwood first meets, and it isn't this one. So they aren't going to find out."

"I think you'll find that that is government property." Mycroft sniffs.

The Doctor throws the note book over his shoulder and strides past Mycroft to the door, "And I think you'll find that we're over international waters. And everything is fair game."

He pulls open the doors of the TARDIS sweepingly, in an attempt to be melodramatic that makes Sherlock laugh, to reveal the green and blue surface of a far off Earth.

Finally, Mycroft's poker face crumbles away to a look of astonishment. Sherlock wonders if that was what his face looked like when he first saw this, so many years ago; the wide eyed disbelief, the slack jaw and lines of doubt above your eyes as you begin to question everything you know. Sherlock thinks it must be a cliché for the Doctor seeing that face, but the mad man grins all the same.

"Nothing like making someone really take their lives into perspective." The Doctor says, walking over to Sherlock, "It's a little sad, actually, realising how small you are. But even the smallest can make a difference."

"This isn't a fairytale, Doctor. I don't need you to tell me I can 'change the world'." Of all the Doctor's façades, Sherlock likes the 'wise old man' the least.

The Doctor opens his mouth to reprimand his companion but his words are carried away on the sound of the TARDIS groaning. Sherlock jumps up and braces himself on the railing as the old ship begins to shake beneath his feet.

They seemed to be tumbling straight through the air and down to earth.

They are going to crash.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: OOOOOOOH CLIFFHANGER… which is very easily fixed. It's the why they crashed that is interesting. Part 2 shall be brought to you tomorrow evening, as it is already written but I want to draw out the suspense. Heehee. **

**Also, Sherlock and Mycroft's mother died :( This is obviously AU as she has been alluded to in the series so we can assume she is alive (it has always been a head cannon of mine however, so I thought I would inflict it upon you). **

**Would really like to know what people think of my Mycroft, so review if you'd be so kind!**


	7. Sherlock Holmes is 13 years old  Part 2

"_This isn't a fairytale, Doctor. I don't need you to tell me I can 'change the world'." Of all the Doctor's façades, Sherlock likes the 'wise old man' the least._

_The Doctor opens his mouth to reprimand his companion but his words are carried away on the sound of the TARDIS groaning. Sherlock jumps up and braces himself on the railing as the old ship begins to shake beneath his feet. _

_They seemed to be tumbling straight through the air and down to earth. _

_They are going to crash._

* * *

><p>"Mycroft close those doors!" The Doctor sprang into action, spinning the monitor to himself, "Oh, what's this old girl! This isn't good. Oh not good at all. Sherlock can you just hold this," he places Sherlock's hand over a lever, "down for me. See if we can stabilise."<p>

"What's going on, Doctor?" Sherlock yells over the rattling of the TARDIS, trying to keep his footing. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Mycroft holding the handles of the doors as they shudder and threaten to break free.

"Something is pulling us back through the vortex. Forcing us down to Earth. Not very nice."

The TARDIS soon ceases shaking and lands, though it does so without the familiar 'woosh' and 'vworp'. A crash landing was quieter than the normal one, apparently.

"Come on then! Let's see where we are." The Doctor claps his hands together and dances down the steps of the TARDIS as if being ambushed is just another grand adventure.

Mycroft supposes he suits Sherlock in that sense.

Cautiously the three of them step from the TARDIS into a dark room holding little more than a four poster bed, a bucket and a dusty coat of arms above an empty fire place. The walls are made of great grey stone and there is a heavy wooden door in the wall opposite the TARDIS. They were still on Earth, it seemed.

"Oh-oh-oh." The Doctor coos, rubbing his palm against the TARDIS exterior lovingly, "The old girl doesn't like whatever brought us here. Residual time energy making her feel a bit ill."

"We should leave then." Sherlock suggests, though there is a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"Probably." The Doctor returns.

"Then let's go." Mycroft sighs, exasperation laced in his voice.

He lets his eyes flicker between the pair of children and sees it coming before it happens. The Doctor and Sherlock erupt into a fit of laughter.

"Oh good, so we get to run around a dank castle in Scotland somewhere, hoping to have a run in with the potentially dangerous alien that ran down your ship?"

The Doctor composes himself and answers, " Precisely."

"Scotland?" Sherlock questions, unable to supress sibling rivalry, "I would say more the north of England, judging by the…"

"Scotland." Mycroft cuts in, "You'd be right if we were still in the 20th century."

Sherlock's eyes sweep the room and he sighs in defeat, "Oh, you're right. Late 17th century, Scotland. What do you think, Doctor?"

Baffled, the Doctor pulls out his sonic screwdriver and scans the dark room before holding it up before his eyes, "Looks like you're right. Thought I can't begin to guess how you knew."

"It doesn't really matter, it just looks like private education has paid off after all. I know my eras. Don't want to be running into any of the locals though."

"Exactly," Mycroft jumped in, "So do you really think we ought to be running about the place?"

"Mycroft doesn't really enjoy leg work." Sherlock smiles and pats his own stomach lightly.

"Sorry Mycroft," the Doctor sighs, "I need to find out what pulled the TARDIS down, or it might happen again."

Smirking at his brother, Sherlock swings open the heavy wooden door of the room and tentatively steps into the narrow hallway. Candles light the way down, flickering madly in the draft of the castle, sending shadows quivering against the stone. Mycroft chuckles deeply at the scene as the Doctor and himself follow a few paces behind Sherlock.

"Something funny?" The Doctor raises his eyebrows.

"Yes. Everything. All of this. It's absurd. We've come from a funeral in the 20th century to a castle in Scotland three hundred years earlier."

The Doctor picks up on the touch of melancholy in Mycroft's words and sighs, "I'm sorry about your mother, for what it's worth."

"She was… a good woman."

"I bet."

"You can't- you can't go back? Can't change it?" There is no pleading in Mycroft's voice, but he thought it worth a try, "Not for my sake."

It doesn't need saying whose sake it was for. Both pairs of eyes fall on Sherlock's back as he strides ahead, playing sleuth.

"It doesn't work like that." The Doctor replies, though he is aware that Mycroft already knows, Torchwood would already have him convinced that no one man should have as much power as the Doctor, "I don't know what I would effect in the future."

"I'm… concerned, Doctor."

"I know."

"Sherlock… he orbited around our mother, as a child. Well, what am I saying, he still is a child. Just look at him. He can't socialise, he barely sleeps or eats for all of that 'thinking'. And now that our mother is- is dead, I don't know how he'll cope. He won't listen to me; he's had this idea in his head for years that I'm the 'enemy'. I suppose I don't help the idea any. But the point is that I can only watch him breakdown from a distance. He's much the same way with our father, only father doesn't care. That was our mother's job." Mycroft finally stops to take in a deep breath, he fiddles with the cuffs of his sleeves before turning to the Doctor, "But why am I telling you all of this?"

"It happens a lot," the Doctor shrugs, "People just… trust me."

"But I know who you are. And anyone who knows you should never _trust_ you."

The pair fall into a bitter silence as the Doctor lets Mycroft's words sink in. He hates the eldest Holmes brother, just for a fraction of a second, for speaking the truth. Being in the Doctor's company would get you killed.

Their path is eerily silent. True, they are wandering around in the small hours of the morning but there is not a sign of life to be seen. Sherlock occasionally pushes doors open to reveal nothing and no one behind them as if the entire castle is suspended in some Twilight Zone.

Sherlock turns a corner and a second later they hear him call back.

"Doctor, if it's convenient, or if not actually, could you please join me."

Clearly, Mycroft picks up on something in his brother's voice that the Doctor missed as his eyes set into a frown and he paces ahead to Sherlock's aid.

"They move when you look away. Just keep looking." Sherlock tells his brother, wide eyed as he keeps his eyes fixed forward.

Because a few paces in front of him are three stone angels. Harmless looking but for their snarling teeth and sharpened nails. And the fact that they edge closer with ever blink of the brothers' eyes.

Mycroft jumps back and, for once, is completely speechless.

"What's going on here then!" The Doctor chirps, rounding the corner, "Nothing too horrible I ho… Oh."

"What are they, Doctor?"

He places his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and gently pulls him a few steps back from the statues, "They're called Weeping Angels. They can only move when you can't see."

"A defence mechanism?"

The Doctor hesitates, if this was the right time he would express his pride in the young man for knowing that, but it wasn't the right time, "Precisely. When you are watching them they are nothing more than stone."

"And you can't kill stone." Sherlock smiles. This is the cleverest beast he's come across yet, and that is just all too exciting to him.

"What do they want?" Mycroft asks and his brother tuts because they both already know, but he wants the Doctor to say it. Because he wants the Doctor to admit, however indirectly, that he leads people to their deaths.

"They want to kill us."

"There is a room a few meters behind us," Sherlock interrupts, "If we walk backward and keep our eyes on the angels we can get inside and think of a plan."

"That's not going to work." Mycroft says.

"Why not? We just have to be able to see them."

"The candles are going out."

One by one, down the hall towards them, it seemed some invisible fingers were suffocating the candles' oxygen supply, casting the hall in darkness.

"So," Sherlock says and he is hard pressed to keep the smile from his face, "We know what to do then."

"What?"

"Oh how can you not be getting this Mycroft?"

The Doctor cuts in, "RUN!"

They turn on their heels together and sprint to the door. Consciously or not, Sherlock, who is built for a life of running, falls back to keep pace with his brother, who so clearly is built for sitting at a desk. He may think Mycroft an enemy, but they were still brothers, and he didn't want to see him harmed.

They all pile into the room, as sparsely decorated as the one they had landed in, and the Doctor slammed the door shut after them. The dense piece of wood is all that separates them and the carnivorous Angels.

BANG.

The Angles are trying to hammer their way in, it seems.

"OK. OK. OK, we need to think of a plan." The Doctor stammers breathlessly, shoulder against the door, though he knows it's useless. They are weak right now, unfed, but strong enough to break the door in a minute.

BANG.

"They're the reason the castle is so empty, aren't they?" Sherlock asks and the Doctor, just realising it himself, nods. They have killed everyone.

BANG. BANG.

The Angles are seconds from breaking through now.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The Doctor is surprised they haven't already splintered the wood into a thousand pieces.

In a last ditch attempt to save the three of them from the Angels' clutches, he presses his face against the door and yelled, "The TARDIS." BANG, " MY TARDIS! The TIME TRAVELLING ship that brought us here."

The banging ceases.

"A big, yummy box of time for you to sink your teeth into. Much better than two humans and a- a me." He skitters around the phrase 'Time Lord'.

"They're gone?" Mycroft asks, panting slightly from the exertion of the last few moments.

"For now." The Doctor says, "The TARDIS will keep them busy for a while. They won't get what they want, of course, she's a tough old thing."

"And what is that they want? Apart from wanting to kill us, I mean."

"Well, it's complicated but I suppose you could call it Time Energy."

"So what should we do?"

"What can we do? They've already killed everyone in the castle. They pulled us, mid-flight, back in time and I have no idea how. Even if we do get back to the TARDIS they could do it again and again. We're trapped." The Doctor falls back against a wall and by the candlelight Sherlock observes the glassy look that falls over his eyes. It is the one that almost always comes before he admits defeat.

"Doctor, Doctor listen!" Sherlock hisses impatiently, "I think I know what happened."

"What?"

"Mycroft, tell me, when you first saw the TARDIS, where was it?"

"In the cemetery." Mycroft shrugs.

"Yes, yes. But what was around it? In front of it?"

"Headstones. Statues. The usual. Nothing was in front of it."

"But there was. There was a statue of an angel; a crying angel."

"Oh brilliant, Sherlock. You are BRILLIANT!" The Doctor grabs onto his companions shoulders and shakes him gleefully, though Sherlock grimaces slightly at the contact.

Dropping Sherlock, the Doctor begins to pace with his fingertips rubbing his temples, "The Angel was probably waiting on Earth, all that time, just waiting for someone foolish like me to come along. It felt the time energy and sniffed the TARDIS out, grabbing onto the exterior before we took off in an act of desperation. Idiotic really, it was probably destroyed before we arrived here. However it would have had enough time to wait until were stable and pull us back through the vortex using the energy from its little friends back here in 17th century Scotland. It sacrificed itself to bring the other Angels a snack. A big, complex, timey wimey snack. BUT" the Doctor claps his hands together, "I know how they did it now. And they can't do it again without destroying themselves."

"So we just need to get back to the TARDIS then?" Mycroft suggests.

"And leave a group of Weeping Angels here? I don't think so."

"So what exactly is your plan?"

"It's a work in progress." The Doctor says, causing one Holmes brother to grimace at their inevitable doom and the other to laugh at the thrill of it all.

"But for now, whatever happens, there is just ONE thing you must do."

The Doctor pauses, grinning at the Holmes brothers.

"Don't blink."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: That is actually the end of this flashback, though the conflict isn't technically resolved. There are only a few solid ways to defeat the Weeping Angles though and they have all been explored. So think of those and throw in Sherlock and Mycroft and you have yourselves an end.**

**But just to ease your minds, they destroy the Angels and the Doctor takes the Holmes' back to Earth where Mycroft leaves in a huff, telling Sherlock he can never see that man again but secretly respecting him. And the Doctor promises Sherlock they'll meet again in Sherlock's future.**

**No promises for when the next chapters will be up, but I'll do my best to be quicker. **

**As always, reviews much appreciated. In fact, they are the things that keep me writing. **


End file.
